Just a Dance
by Angelique Daemon
Summary: The Warden decides to lift the party's spirits, and Zevran experiences emotions he had not thought himself capable of. Just a bit of humorous fluff, with my Dalish Warden.


**Author's note: **Listening to He Mele No Lilo inspired this... and frankly if anyone in uptight Ferelden would dance like they actually knew what to do with their hips, it would be the Dalish. So this is just a little random idea that popped into my head that I thought would be fun to write, and would kind of fit into the way the PC has to everyone's feelings and keep morale up.

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><p>They were <em>finally<em> out of Orzammar... horrible hot, oppressive, dusty, depressing, disquieting, awful Orzammar. '_To be fair, the shopping __**was**__ nice,_' Zevran admitted to himself, but he was just as glad as the rest of them to be the hell out of there. They were traveling out of the Frostback Mountains at the moment, and he was more than happy to see the last of the cursedly cold mountains. As he was sure were Sten and their illustrious leader. Speaking of... she had spent an awful lot of time in Leliana's company lately. He was not a jealous person, of course, so when he saw the bard's coppery head bent towards Zilfayirin's starlight tresses, it brought to mind pleasing fantasies rather than angry possessiveness... if for no other reason than he knew their leader was only sleeping with _him_. Still, he _was_ curious about what they were talking about... Surely not shoes, as the Dalish seemed to be too practical for that. As it turned out, he got his answer that night at camp.

Morrigan had cooked, thank the Maker, because it meant that Alistair had _not_. So it was with full stomachs that they contentedly went about their evening business of repairs, cleaning, and so on. Zilfayirin was still whispering together with Leliana, but the elf left for her tent soon enough. Zevran was a bit disappointed at the early retirement, as it meant that he would not get to share her bedroll, but he had weapon maintenance to do and settled into it. Everyone at the camp seemed to go on about their normal routine, except for the bard, who seemed more distracted than normal. She sat on a log, nodding her head to some tune only she could hear, her gaze a million miles away. She did not have her lute, which was odd, but instead had a drum. He had not seen the instrument before, but he had not gone into her tent either, so she could have had it all along.

Movement drew his attention, and he looked over to see their leader emerge from her tent... and even given his rather broad definition of the concept, he would say that she was not wearing clothing per se. _He_ was fine with it of course, but he knew that as soon as Alistair saw her, the ex-Templar was going to explode... especially considering the cow eyes he had been making at her for some time. Sten would likely explode too, but from disapproval. Oghren... Maker, he hoped the dwarf was too drunk to notice. Bold as brass, and as if the cold did not effect her at all, Zilfayirin stalked like a hunting cat from her tent, past the fire, and into the open stretch of camp between their tents and Morrigan's private camp, wearing only her breast band, and the skirt from an old suit of her Dalish armor. It was... striking... and he knew the moment his companions noticed her, because of the various sounds they made, from Alistair's embarrassed squeak to Wynne's soft gasp of surprise. Well, it seemed like it was going to be an entertaining evening.

Leliana started to sing in what was likely Elven and drum lightly as their leader stood with her fists on her hips. After the first few bars, she began to move quite gracefully, but in a highly stylized manner that had the Crow wondering if this was some religious ceremony rather than the saucy dance her outfit had implied. He had almost given up hope... and the drumming picked up, her arms lowered and her hips came to life.

Her spine had gone somewhere else, he was sure, because that was the only logical explanation for her fluid movements. He knew that the rest of her body was moving, but he could not force his eyes up from her hips, their exaggerated swaying accentuated by the flaps of the skirt. He watched the supple muscles of her stomach flex and shift as she moved with the writhing grace of a serpent. He knew that there were other aspects of the dance, he could see flashes of footwork, occasionally she turned her back to them, and sometimes her hands were on her hips, or crossed in front of them, but none of that mattered. He had known that she could move those perfectly rounded, exquisitely grip-able curves in ways that would have made the whores that raised him jealous, but seeing her intentionally exaggerate the movement, in the light with others watching sent a perverse bolt of desire through him. And when Alistair made strangled little whimper, a possessiveness Zevran had never believed was in his nature shot through him.

'_Ogle now while you can, my friend_,' the possessiveness told the ex-Templar, '_because you will never see it in private. Never will she flex and writhe over or under you. Never will you see how supply her body arches, like the finest bow, as she grips your shoulders or your hair, and pants your name in pleasure. Would you like to know how she looks with her silver hair clinging to her cheeks, mingling with the green lines of her __**vallaslin**__? You never will, my friend, because __**I**__ am the only one who sees that._'

The internal monologue was interrupted by Sten's exclamation of, "_Paashara_," and the clank of his armor as he turned away, "This is pointless."

Alistair wheezed in response as Oghren snickered suggestively.

Just as it looked like Zilfayirin was taking her final bows, the drumming picked up again, and the Antivan actually managed to force his eyes up from her lower body. The look on her face hit him like a dwarven maul. She looked... absolutely ecstatic. The normally serious, cool expression she had been wearing more and more lately was replaced instead by a face that radiated joy from every pore. Her vibrant eyes shone with happiness, her smile lighting up her face in the dim starlight, as her pale skin seemed to glow under the moon's gentle influence. Had this been what she was like all the time among her people? He would not have thought he could imagine such a thing anymore given the somewhat stoic bearing, and yet at this moment it was easy. He could see her dancing with her clansmen, fiercely proud, and unapologetically joyous as they paid homage to their heathen gods in the moonlight.

With one last flourish the drumming stopped and so did she, looking as through she would fly away. Her attention seemed to return to the mortal world from whatever paradise it had been in, and she dropped out of that final pose, her chest heaving gently. Little known fact, controlled fluid movement was bloody _tiring_. Still, she grinned at them, and put her fists on her hips. "I'm tired of you gloomy _shemlen_," she announced, "_Yes_ it's cold, and _yes_ it's a bit miserable, but the air is fresh, the sky arcs above you, and the land stretches out before you. Rather than complain about it, or give in to it, _do_ something about it!" she commanded, "Don't just sit there like bumps on a log! Get up and move! It will warm you and lift your spirits, yes?" Her eyes went to Leliana, and her smile widened. That seemed to be the cue for the redhead to start singing again, but this time, Zilfayirin called an answer back to the lines. Rather than a drum, the strains of the lute played now, and their leader stamped out her own beat as she began dancing again.

This song switched back and forth between common and Elven, with the Dalish happily calling back to the bard. This dance... was more energetic and _far_ less stylized. Zevran was almost entirely sure that the entire point was to showcase the dancer's athleticism, and she was _very_ athletic. Not long into the song, she danced her way over to the group by the fire, and quite daringly made a point of dancing _around_ Sten, to the qunari's annoyance. She swished from him to Alistair, and grabbed her fellow Warden's hand, yanking him to his feet. He stood there stupidly, looking like a frightened rabbit as she used him for a steady backing, sliding down his side until she was practically on the ground, and then springing lithely back up to her feet, and swaying around him.

As Zevran had felt that foreign possessiveness a while ago, now he felt and equally unknown jealously knife through him, and he glared angrily at the royal bastard. Why was she dancing around _him_? Why did _he_ get to feel the brush of her curves as she moved close to him, her hips still swinging in that maddening way? He did not even _appreciate _it! At least not properly! He was too busy being a prudish, uptight Fereldan to...

She was suddenly in front of the assassin, and he had no idea when that had happened. She shoved his weapons from his lap, and pulled him to his feet as she had Alistair. Rather than use him as a glorified pole though, she pulled him against her, put her hands on his hips, and started rather bossily moving him to dance with her, melding her body to his so she could control his movements with her own. The beat was simple enough, and even if he was constrained by the fact that he was still in his armor, it did not take him more than a few bars to fall into the rhythm of the song.

Her eyes lit happily when he no longer needed her guidance, and she released his hips to wrap her arms around his neck instead, her gaze locked on his. There was a challenge written in her eyes that he was unsure of how to interpret. Still, he kept his eyes locked on hers, and the sparkle of mischief that moved through them gave him just enough warning that when her leg curled around his and she tripped him, he was able to control the fall to the ground. She had released his neck on the way down, and rather than fall on top of him, she ended up in a handstand over him, giving him _quite_ the view before letting herself fall into a back bend, and then pushing herself to her feet as the music ended.

She laughed breathily, breathing harder now than she was before, and pointed to her fellow Warden, "And now Alistair's blush will warm the entire camp for the whole evening, _and _give everyone something to laugh at!" she announced triumphantly, "You're all welcome!" She laughed all the way to her tent, though Zevran noticed the look she shot him from the corner of her eyes.

"Maker's _breath_," the ex-Templar swore, only now seeming to find his voice. His knees finally unlocked and he sank to the ground, looking rather like he had been struck. He did not seem to have heard their leader's words, and neither Leliana's giggling, nor Wynne's chuckling seemed to get through to him. Zevran decided that rather than taunt the warrior, he would just slip off to the other elf's tent while no one was paying attention.

He had no sooner slipped through the flap than Zilfayirin was on him. Her hands were a flurry of activity, unbuckling his armor so she could pull it off him as she kissed him desperately, her body molding to his. He helped her remove the leather, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground as he was infected by her urgency. Once he was naked, his hands were on her, removing the last of her clothing before moving over her skin, scratching and gripping at her. This dance was a private one, and even though the Antivan was a bit of an exhibitionist by nature, he did not _want_ anyone to see this. She had already danced for _them_, so this performance was just _his_, one of the few things that he could claim completely and totally for himself. It was a quiet this time, punctuated by ragged breathing, and the sound of skin sliding over skin. Later he would make her cry out. Later he would remind everyone in camp how satisfied he made her. Later he would remind them of his prowess, and prove that he was not all talk... but right now she, and this, was his, and his alone.

No one bothered them to take a watch, and it was just as well. It was some time before exhaustion brought their antics to a halt, and when it did Zevran simply remained where he was. Usually he left, returning to his own tent as she fell asleep, but this time he watched her peaceful, happy, sated face as she drifted off and decided that there was nowhere else he wanted to be. He did not know where this dance was leading, and for tonight he just would not to think about it. He simply fell asleep with his Warden in his arms, a smile curling his lips.


End file.
